Nothing Left

Mojito had to tell Asla about his discussion with their daughter. Even if Satira had told her mother he felt it only right to try and give what advice he could to the woman to help her help their daughter navigate a subject the woman herself had no personal history with. And if Asla did not know, well then she ought to. It wasn't something they could protect their child from anymore, and maybe he'd been naive to assume it was something they ever could but being in the Armada had been a relief, he had found a place where he did not need to be aware of every movement he made or how his actions might color what others thought of him. Here he was Mojito, Trauma Specialist and he'd earned that same as anyone else earned their spots in the pack. If anyone doubted his merits that was something they could take up with Sirius but he had other things to worry about.

It wasn't really something Mojito wanted to have to talk to Asla about, things right now were more sensitive than usual, Naiche's passing was still fresh and with the strange going-ons at night wolves were also more on edge. But things were somehow worse than he'd imagined... Mojito had arrived, ready to gently call out to the woman and hope she was still awake but the children asleep, it wasn't a discussion they needed to be privy to but instead he'd found her laying outside her den, silently sobbing into her limbs.

The old Mojito would have moved without thinking, would have curled himself around her and held her in his arms and let her cry, wouldn't have said anything, just let her get out whatever emotion she needed to get out before she was ready to talk. But now? Now there was a wall between them, he'd laid the foundation and she'd stacked it high and though his legs ached to hold her he stood rooted to the ground. He cleared his throat and looked away, wanting to give her a moment to compose herself and save her the embarrassment of the situation.

"Speech!"

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